


Child of the Kindly West

by thingsishouldntbedoing



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3239288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsishouldntbedoing/pseuds/thingsishouldntbedoing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bargaining chip falls into the hands of Thorin Oakenshield: he has the chance to remake history and a chance to save that which he loves the most. Death is only a technicality, only another beginning, and his heartbeat is the first note in a symphony that will shake Middle Earth to its core.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Fall of Erebor

**Author's Note:**

> This story has become quite the undertaking and you deserve to understand how it began:
> 
> A simple question, sent to [me](http://jocunditea.co.vu/) by [murmuredlullabye](http://murmuredlullabye.tumblr.com/) gave me the original, most basic form of the idea and from there it blossomed into a fully blown adventure, completely unlike the original prompt I had been given. Needless to say I had quite a time planning the story itself, since it was such an incredible undertaking, which included working until the wee hours of the morning with [Courtney](http://bilbosoaktree.tumblr.com/) (without whom Child of the Kindly West would never have come to be) and blatantly ignoring every responsibility that came my way until this first chapter was complete. 
> 
> My beta [malvinnia](http://malvinnia.tumblr.com/) earns an incredible thanks for being patient with me and working diligently in order to polish my writing until it shines - a thankless job at times considering how persnickety I can be - and for filling in the holes that Courtney and I had not thought of (surprisingly few all things considered).
> 
> tl; dr: Without further ado I welcome you to the world of **Child of the Kindly West**.

Looking for Thorin in the great halls of Erebor was rather like hunting for a single coin in a treasury. He could be anywhere, could _go_ anywhere, and likely didn't wish to be found - of course, Balin was still better than most at understanding the prince's whims. He had experienced first-hand the beauty of watching Thorin grow up.

He had been barely a youth when the prince was born, announced to the city of Erebor with heraldry and celebrations to rival a coronation, had barely understood the affairs that surrounded him when he was introduced to a squalling child - but he _had_ understood when Thorin ceased to cry in the cradle of his arms.  
  
He had always been able to calm him since.

Through royal tantrums and princely rage, and into the learning of childhood and the early burdens of being an heir - through all these and more Thorin had battled with Balin by his side... And Balin counted every day as a blessing. His Prince had become a flame burning bright in the hearts of their people, a symbol of zeal and vigor that trained hard with the soldiers and ate his meals with them, all to better understand those he served - for Thorin knew that it was he that served his people. Indeed, for all his good-natured mischief and regal gait (inhibited only by the lankiness of adolescence), Thorin never forgot who would place the crown upon his head.

Crown. As if a flash of lightning had struck to illuminate the path, he changed his course drastically and chuckled at his own ignorance - if Thorin was nowhere to be found, there was only _one_ place he could be.

"Balin!" Thorin called his name as he neared the paths to the throne. "Balin, over here!"

He didn't try to stop the wry smile when he found Thorin splayed out on the throne, still wiry and mostly bare-faced - a youthful image hinting at the Dwarf he would become.

"How do I look?" He asked, jutting his chin.

"Like you're going to cause trouble," Balin stopped short of the stairs. "What's the meaning of this?"

"I just wanted to try it out," Thorin answered. "Grandfather always sits here so seriously!" 

"Where _is_ your grandfather?" Was the next most obvious question.

"Having a bath. I've already had mine today," he sniffed. "Want to come sit with me?"

"No, laddie, I'm afraid that's not a seat with a weight I could bear." Balin shook his head. "Why don't you come down and we'll go work in the forges, yeah?"

"Come up here!" Thorin didn't heed his guardian, scrambling to his feet in the great chair. "You can see all the way down into the caverns from here!"

Balin leaned forward, peering down into the depths below, and recalled that once Thorin had leapt into a miner's cart and ridden it down into the depths without a second thought - Thror had nearly taken his hide and nailed it to the gates of Erebor for letting Thorin out of his sight.

"I wonder how high I can climb..." Thorin was mumbling by the time he looked up.

"Thorin! You can't climb the throne!" He finally dared to take a step towards the boy who had begun to scramble his way up the granite.

"Sure I can! Nobody's going to stop me!" 

"A short drop and a broken neck might stop you from doing anything ever again!" Balin climbed the next step. "Thorin!"

"I'll be fine!" Thorin laughed. As if on cue the boy’s grip failed and he caught hold of the Arkenstone's casing to keep from falling, fingers grasping for purchase on slick gold and granite. "Help!" Fear struck cold, a gelid knife in Balin’s belly when Thorin fell, crumpling at the foot of the throne.

Shock drove him to inaction and for a brief moment he couldn't move - feet heavy with terror - but he wrenched himself free of his paralysis and dashed to Thorin's side. Balin was too stunned to speak for half a heartbeat - bated breath tight in his lungs as he assessed Thorin for injuries, thankful that the fall the boy had taken had been a lucky one.

"Balin?" The prince said with a bitter sort of wonderment, gripping his friend's shoulder as he sat up. 

"Are you alright? That was... quite the fall..." Balin tried to ease his own discomfort under the gaze of his prince, tried to pretend that another few feet wouldn't have had Thorin falling into the deep - though he wasn't sure which unsettled him more.

Something unnerving had settled into Thorin's young eyes: a strangely piercing edge that hardened the blue gaze into a blade, a wisdom that had not been there before. It was as if Thorin had aged right in front of him, a solemnity that had not been present before blending his features and blunting them as armor blunted a sword.

"I'm alright," he said softly. "I took a serious risk, didn't I?" Thorin looked up at the Arkenstone above them. "I won't be doing that again." He laughed, relaxing beneath Balin's grip.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Balin frowned suspiciously.

"Thorin!" Dwalin's voice cut the air and he looked to see his brother approaching, swinging his sword experimentally. "I thought we were going to spar!"

Thorin didn't answer immediately, taking in Dwalin as if he hadn't seen him in a century, but a bright smile broke into his face.

"A spar? Of course!" Thorin leapt to his feet and offered a hand to help Balin up. "Are you coming along?"

"As long as it keeps you from climbing the throne again," Balin looked back to the Arkenstone as the younger Dwarves walked away, hesitant to abandon all concern. Something had happened just then. Something he wasn't sure he would ever understand.

He had seen in Thorin's eyes too knowing a gaze for one so young, too gentle a smile - a smile that would have normally been bright with confidence and edged by the cockiness of a youthful prince - and it left him breathless. 

Days passed. Months. _Years_. Yet... no one else seemed to suspect anything.

Then again, no one else had found Thorin in the throes of nightmares or in the deep, contemplative silences with eyes like glass and lips moving with imperceptible words. It was Balin alone who caught the glimpses of genuine joy and delight, but also saw the immediate shift from careworn Dwarf to youthful Prince whenever Thorin thought himself observed.

His battle skills improved tenfold, hand on a blade like that of a battle-tested warrior, and his interest in the politics of his kingdom grew, throwing himself into learning the movements of the Men in Dale and the Elves of the Greenwood - things the king did not miss, but thought little of. Perhaps _Thrâin_ was the only other person Balin knew to possibly have noticed something, though he seemed more apt to pass it off as a yearning interest in the the kingdom Thorin would one day rule. Maybe it was easier that way.

Perhaps it was easier to pretend that Thorin had not become prone to losing himself in thought. Perhaps it was easier to pretend that he did not watch his family and friends closely, holding them tighter than before, lingering by their sides - as if he thought they could disappear in a heartbeat. Perhaps it was easier to pretend that Thorin had not changed.

For Balin it was not so easy. There was no room to pretend.

He could remember with distinct clarity the first moment he realized - _really_ _understood_ \- that something had been fundamentally changed within his prince, the point at which it had become impossible to ignore. 

It had been late into Thorin’s adolescence, and the Prince had convinced his father to send a scouting party into the North... Though joining the party _himself_ at the last moment had not been a part of the original bargain.

“Why are you doing this?” Balin had asked quietly as they marched at the head of the column.  
  
“Why am I doing what?” Thorin’s face had lightened. “Walking?”  
  
“Don’t be smart with me. Your grandfather was _spitting mad_ when we left.” He watched the young prince hesitate before answering, considering his response.  
  
“I came because I wished to leave Erebor for a moment.”  
  
Thorin seemed to immediately realize this was the wrong thing to say - face shuttering and eyes going dark - the light within vanishing as if had been snuffed out in a starless night. It was a reaction Balin had seen several times before, in the moments when Thorin thought he had said too much - had made a statement so unlike himself that those closest to him might look upon him with suspicion.  
  
“You shouldn’t be so reckless.”  
  
In the past, Thorin had been content to live amongst his people within Erebor; content to look forward to the day he would be King. Yet now, he discussed the future as if it was not certain, he sounded as if there existed, in some unforeseeable future, a calamity that could befall them, one capable of destroying their way of life. Words that would frighten those less certain of their safety.

That night had been particularly clear, almost painfully bright beneath a full moon and too many stars, and Balin had been able to see out over the expanse of trees, straight back to their mountain.

Thorin had stood, ever vigilant, with his eyes to the North - but as Balin watched from beneath his blanket he had seen something that would change his life, perhaps even the way he perceived the world. There, in the lustrous moonlight, Thorin had unintentionally revealed a secret that had stolen Balin’s breath like a death rattle - an exhalation that left him hollow with understanding.

Fear sank into him like a needle through old wool, shredding the delicate fibers of the Dwarf’s heart and bowing his head when he could no longer look upon his prince - the burden of knowledge now too heavy for him to bear. 

He wished evermore that he had never looked up, cursed his curiosity and vast ignorance... yet he swore an oath beneath the stars to bear his prince’s burdens - pressing his fealty into his own knuckles as a penitence.

Fealty, however, was naught but empty words without loyalty to see it through.

A loyalty Balin would not have questioned.

Decades passed before Balin learned what had come of that night - years before he put together all that had been happening since that moment beneath the starlight. For the most part, he pushed the thoughts back and served Thorin to the best of his ability - letting the reason _why_ wash away beneath his dedication.

The moment it fell into place was when Balin found himself standing outside his Prince's room, looking firmly into the eyes of Frerin - Thorin's younger brother. They were standing guard, or at least they were attempting to _appear_ as if they were, ears turned towards the crack that had been haphazardly left in the wake of Thráin and his eldest son.

"Father, you must appeal to him! Tell him I speak the truth!" He heard Thorin's voice, pleading and rough. "We _must_ leave!"

"You have no _proof_ , Thorin." Thráin's response was bitter and exhausted, obviously worn by his son's arguments. "You have a suspicion of a dragon-," here Thráin scoffed "- but no evidence that such a creature still lives within a thousand leagues of here!"

Frerin jumped, startled by a loud bang from within, and Dwalin steadied him with a large hand. The younger prince shouldn't have been allowed to listen to his elders fighting, but there was no backing down now, not when Frerin was gritting his teeth in an attempt to remain passive in the argument - his faith in Thorin was unshakeable.

Of course, the faith of many was bound to their Crown Prince and his eldest son, the Dwarves who would lead them in the far off future. They were a constant reminder of all that was good in Dwarves and all that was worth protecting - symbols more than mortals.

Frerin and Dís were no different.

They saw Thorin for what he was: a young Dwarf with a heavy weight on his shoulders, yet their belief in his strength was unmatched.

Balin realized the argument had fallen silent, that Frerin had pressed his knuckles against his mouth to stifle himself, straining against Dwalin's grip on his collar... However the argument had ended, it couldn't have been good.

"They are leaving for the throne," Dwalin said in an undertone. "Thorin says something there will prove his words." 

Balin searched his brother's face, trying to understand what had transpired, then turned to the youngest prince. The fear from before had faded into simple concern mingled with curiosity - and Frerin’s fingers loosened on the hilt of his axe, tension released in his gesture.

“What’s he going to do?” Frerin breathed.  
  
“I don’t know, let’s follow and find out,” Balin led them, nerves hot in his gut. 

By the time they reached the edges of the throne’s platform, Thráin sat on the stairs, face stricken as if he had been felled by some invisible force. Thorin stood tall above him, as still as a statue, his chin high and jaw set into a hard line. It was quite the sight: a son above his father with a mantle of nobility that few had seen, even in Thrór.

“Do you believe me now?” Thorin asked, voice a roar in the quiet of the platform.

Frerin made to run across the path but Dwalin collared him and pulled him back with a gentle, “No, lad.”  
  
“I have no choice, do I?” Thráin said to the granite beneath him.  
  
“You have no choice. There is a dragon coming, Âdad, and nothing will stop it.”  
  
“We could fi-”  
  
“No!”  
  
Frerin struggled again at Thorin’s interruption and Balin clapped a hand over his mouth to keep him silent. They were witnessing something they were not meant to: a power struggle between two heirs of Thrór - between a father and his child. Thorin, for all his youth and lack of wisdom, seemed to be winning.  
  
“To fight the beast would be folly. I am here to tell you that nothing good will come of it,” Balin could feel the weight of his words, each like the heavy ringing of a hammer against an anvil, pounding nascent steel into shape. “We must _leave_ Erebor.”

“Leave…” Thrain breathed. “ _Leave_ Erebor?” The Crown Prince rose to his feet shakily. “How dare you suggest such a thing?”  
  
“We _must_ leave.”  
  
“That will take months… _years_.”  
  
“We leave the gold. Take only what is necessary. We can make for the Blue Mountains and -” what Thorin said next was lost upon Balin as the Dwarf watched the prince grip his father’s shoulder to steady him. He saw the certainty in Thorin’s movements, the confidence that his words were true and valuable, and he remembered bright moonlight and cold stars turning their faces toward his prince, an untainted oath to protect, a young prince with ages in his eyes and centuries in his words.

“What’s happening?” Frerin asked.  
  
“The Dwarves are leaving Erebor.”

The solemnity in the resounding silence that followed Balin’s quiet words was nearly deafening, a noiseless scream deep in his bones that left a thousand questions in its wake, chief among them: what next?

 

* * *

 

Nothing was the same after that moment: Thorin’s features grew funereal and his blue eyes hollow, Frerin barely _saw_ his father (much less spoke to him), and their grandfather spoke only when spoken to, choosing to remain with his hoards of gold instead of speaking to his children - crying about treason and betrayal.

Frerin understood why everything was happening, for the most part, but that didn’t stop him from _praying_ that something good would happen - hoping that somehow everything that was happening was nothing but a nightmare. Because while Thorin had receded into himself and Thráin had thrown his time into preparing their people to move, the King had grown ill.

“Frerin!” He turned to find his sister sprinting towards him, thick hair bound and bouncing on the back of her head. “Âdad is -”  
  
“I’ll handle it.”  
  
He didn’t need to ask what was happening, didn’t have to ask where he was needed, because there was only one place their father could be as their people were passing through the gates of their home… Only one place that could keep him from being at the head of the column.  
  
“Traitors! Vagrants! You cannot be of my line! Thieves!” Thrór, wild eyed and gaunt, staggered when his grandson stepped forward. Thorin had grown ever more imposing, face dark and tireless, and he towered over his grandfather now - a figure of power.  
  
“How dare you speak to us this way, grandfather?” Thorin’s voice was broken, empty, as if he had already accepted the truth of the King’s words. “We are trying to protect _your_ _people_!”  
  
“My _people!_ ” Thrór lifted a handful of gold to his grandson. “My people are nothing. Let their blood be spilled in defense of our gold! It is far too precious to part with! We cannot let this _worm_ have it!”  
  
“Who cares for gold and treasures in the face of losing their family?” Thorin slapped it away, the coins scattering into the piles around them. “I care for _you_! We can leave! Regroup! Return! We cannot stay here!”  
  
“Coward!” Thrór snarled. “You will bring _ruin_ to our family!”  
  
Frerin nearly jumped into the vaults, halted only by Thorin’s sudden movement - for half a breath Frerin thought Thorin might strike their forebear, but the hand settled on the old dwarf’s face and rested there, almost conciliatory.  
  
“Perhaps I will…” Thorin said, just above a whisper, “...but I will not allow you to bring our people to ruin, either.”  
  
Frerin wished he could see his brother’s face, wished he could read the emotions on his face at such pyrrhic words - but when Thorin turned his eyes were empty again, face unreadable.  
  
“Frerin! Get guards and drag him out of here if you have to!”  
  
He didn’t need to question his brother’s order, turning and hurrying through the halls. Things had been left in the vast emptiness of the city, objects of value: silks and furs and jewels, things once Frerin would have thought more important than anything - yet now Thorin’s voice lingered in his ears as a dull roar that melted into a single, humming tone:  
  
 _“Who cares for gold and treasures?”_

Frerin’s heart ached in his chest, torn between fear and understanding, and he had to fight the burn in his eyes as he found the few guards that had yet to leave with the others. With directions and a purpose they rushed away, leaving Frerin in their wake - sinking slowly down a pillar.  
  
“We’re really leaving…” he said in an undertone, the gravity of the situation finally settling in.  
  
He buried his face in his hands, tried to press the tears back into his eyes.

“Frerin?” He heard his name, a rumble on familiar lips, and lifted his head to find Thorin standing above him.

Thorin. His brother. Heir to the Throne. Words that meant so many things to so many people, words attached to his brother like arrows to a target, but all fell short when he found Thorin’s eyes - what words could describe the kindness there? What words could begin to elucidate emotions that had no meaning? What words could he give to Thorin when he crouched, when he set a heavy hand on Frerin’s shoulder?  
  
There were none. No amount of locution, that so easily rose to his lips in dry remarks and snide comments, came to mind that could help him understand…

Yet somehow he understood without them. All he needed to do was look into Thorin’s eyes, to feel his elder brother’s hand upon his face and the press of their foreheads together, and the world calmed around them - if only briefly.

“Everything is going to be okay, _naddith_ ,” Thorin murmured.  
  
“How can you be sure?” Frerin caught his hand against Thorin’s neck, hooking his fingers into the long strands of his hair. “How can you be so certain?”  
  
“Because I have to be,” Thorin’s answer raised gooseflesh on his limbs, sharp and cold beneath his leathers.  
  
“Thorin!” They looked up to find their father struggling against the weight of the king. “Frerin, help us take him! Thorin, get the Arkenstone!”  
  
“You are no sons of Durin!” Thrór roared, as if half mad, his strength nearly unmatched by his captors.  
  
“Thorin…”  
  
“Frerin! Go!” Thorin commanded him. “Help Âdad, I will be right behind you!” He started off.  
  
The younger prince lingered, watching his brother’s retreating back, rooted to the spot for longer than he cared to admit. Thorin had always been solemn, had always been gentle and warm, but there was a ferocity deep inside of him now that Frerin wished he possessed - a knowledge of what was True and Good and Right that Frerin lacked.  
  
“ _Frerin_!” His father’s voice reached deep into his thoughts and he tore his eyes away, turning to help to drag his grandfather out with the other Dwarves.

With the leaving of their king the Dwarves of Erebor had finally abandoned their home.

  

* * *

 

Thorin waited until his family had left, standing near the entrance to the Hall of Kings. He waited until they had passed through the doors and out into the cold winter beyond, holding his breath - as if they might vanish beyond the doors, leaving no steps in the snow. He could _not_ lose them. Everything he had done was for _them_. Everything he had done… was for _him._

Everything he had done had lead to this moment.

All of his decisions thus far had brought him to this dangerous precipice and left him hanging by the threads of his sanity, cords unravelling with each moment that passed. The Arkenstone, bright and brilliant before him, was within his grasp. What he had sought for centuries was nestled perfectly into the casing his grandfather had created - the crowning jewel of a kingdom he had seen fall, had seen rise, and had now lost to the darkness.

Here, for the first time in decades, he could gather his thoughts - not working towards some unknown goal whose profits were yet unseen, not processing too many threads in the hope that they could be woven together into a benefit to his people.

This moment was one that would determine his fate - and not only _his_ fate, but that of millions of others.

_Can I let it go?_ He took a breath, each step unsteady. This body was not old and broken, neither was it unsteady nor war-battered nor marred with the cares of the ages - yet it faltered. _He_ faltered.  
  
“You want this,” he said aloud, voice echoing in the empty halls of Erebor. “This is what you seek more than anything else. All your thoughts are focused on it.” He walked up the stairs, air heavy in his lungs. “How different you think you are from mortals…” he reached out, releasing the clasp and letting the Arkenstone fall into his palm.  
  
 _Yet we are not so different_.  
  
He rolled the stone in his fingers, at once cool and hot to the touch, and watched the light burn from within it. Here it was. For the first time it lay in the curl of his fingers and against the skin of his hand, a temptation and a curse.  
  
“You want this… yet only I can give it to you…” he whispered.  
  
He could almost _feel_ the heat of dragonfire once more, could nearly sense the great belly of the beast bellowing above him, yet when he looked over his shoulder, he found nothing - nothing beyond the shadows of dying firelight of an empty city. He was _alone_. In every sense of the word.

“But you will have to wait.”  
  
 _Can I let it go?_ He closed his eyes against the hollow feeling in his chest, against the prickle of fear that crawled up the back of his neck - gelid fingers on his spine.  
  
The Arkenstone had once been the pinnacle of his madness.

It was now the keystone in his salvation.

Letting it go, releasing the stone into the depths of Erebor was a risk he needed to take. A calculated risk, one that would remove any ability to prove who he was or what he said was true without a clear night and an open sky - and one that he would _have_ to take.

He took a breath -

_bones breaking between the fangs of a Warg - men screaming as they die against the spears of Orcs - Kíli - Fíli - Fíli dangling over the ledge - Bilbo -_

then another -

_Smaug’s defeat at the gates of Erebor, dragon blood on his armor, cheers - tears - victory, word from the Blue Mountains - the destruction of the Shire - Bilbo -_

a third.

The heavy sound of the Arkenstone falling to his feet rang calamitously against the walls of his mountain home. A final, jarring note to a symphony he had begun in another lifetime - and the beginning of a new refrain.

 

 


	2. Prologue II: The Fall of Dale

Thorin stood guard, eyes scanning the skyline for the billowing flames he knew would come, waiting with half held breaths and knuckles blanched around the hilt of his sword. What was left of the citizens of Erebor sat behind him, encamped in a clearing with a roaring fire and a solemn air - but _he_ was waiting for a dragon, too concerned with that beast to worry about the sadness of people who had lost their homes.

Convincing the people of Erebor to leave had been the easy part - transporting them, feeding them on their travels, _that_ had taken far longer and had been far more difficult than Thorin had anticipated. Fortunately, they seemed to accept his word - or at least his father's word - because no one questioned _why_ they had been asked to leave beyond accepting that a dragon was imminent.

_Thank Mahal_.

He could feel the heat of the devil's wings as it neared, closed his eyes and let the far-off gusts of heat warm his face. He knew what he had done, that he had left many to die, but there was little he could do. Dale was ruined. Dale was ruined no matter what he did. It _had_ to be sacrificed.

There was no other way, was there?

_I have to be certain of my decisions. If I don’t make them, no one else will._  

"Thorin?" His sister drew his attention with a clearing of her throat. "Are you alright?" Her face sank slightly, "Of course you aren't... But..."

"Thank you, Dís," he said softly and reached out to touch her face. She nestled her cheek against his palm and closed her eyes, face serene in its sadness.

He would not lose Dís. He could not - not his baby sister with all the hope in her heart and romantic ideas of being an ambassador for their people and reuniting the old alliances of Middle Earth. She was foolish, childishly so, but Thorin couldn't help himself - he wanted her dreams to come true, for them to not end in the ruins of war and bloodshed. 

"How did you know?" She asked, curling her small fingers around his wrist. Her eyes opened, darker than sapphires, he noted, with flecks of gold near the center - but the suspicion there was innocent and concerned. "Father says you're..." 

"Âdad may say what he wishes," Thorin answered. "He is, after all, the Crown Prince."

"That is not an answer and you know it," she chided and he turned away to watch the flames lap the skies, grasping at the slippery edges of memory to keep himself from falling into his own thoughts. Dís stood beside him quietly, he assumed to watch as well, but when he looked back she was staring him down. "You knew this dragon would come? Why did we not tell Dale?" 

His sister was sharp, and more critical than Frerin, and he had been afraid of her judgement - of the narrowing of her eyes and the pursing of her lips and the dip of her brow. She could read a dwarf in an instant, having honed her skills on her eldest brother, and while he had grown used to her scrutiny... It was no less unnerving considering the circumstances.

The _true_ answer was beyond her, yet he could find no other reasons for his actions. To anyone else it seemed senseless, a crime to leave the People of Dale unprepared and burdened by the flames - the loss of lives, however, mattered little in comparison.

_They die because they must._

The thought was a spike sunk deep into his heart as if to quench its burning steel, regret hot and rancid until it crawled up into his throat and out of his eyes. He would not crumble in front of his sister, but later he would empty his sparse dinner into the grass, bathed in silver moonlight and cloaked in shame.

"You aren't going to answer me..." She said, resigned. "All those people, Thorin." She curled her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder. "So many lives..."

She stood with him long into the evening, until the starlight was the only thing illuminating the massive clouds of smoke rising from the city a league away, and he was grateful to her. Standing alone, knowing what he had done, he wasn't sure if his knees would have held him.

"You should rest," she tried to strike up conversation again, taking a pass at a nerve she knew would have him arguing.

"I'm not tired. You've had a long day, why don't you go check on Frerin and I'll come to the camp in a while." He looked to her and her frown dropped low.

"I knew that would be your answer... Thorin, you can't avoid everyone forever!"

"Not _now_ Dís," he growled. "I want nothing to do with your concern, nor do I wish to be babied like some adolescent."

She uncoiled her arm from his and scowled, a signature look of their line, dark brows knitted and lip curled, accented by a crook in her hips. Balin had noted, in the past, how alike he was to his sister... It wasn't until now that Thorin took him for his word.

"None of this is your _fault_ , Thorin. You can't sulk over here and blame yourself!" 

"I'm not," he answered. And he wasn't, at least not in the way that she thought.

He watched her storm back towards the camp, placing his palm against the hilt of his sword once more, and reached up to run his fingers across the hollow of his throat. It was as if he could feel a noose around his neck, the pressure like a collar to keep him chained, his stomach churned at the thought.

_So much death._

Without someone beside him there was no need to keep the façade up, and his resolve crumbled. He started down the hill towards the edge of the woods, faint and shaking beneath the weight of his decisions.

_Mahal, what have I done?_

Bile seared his throat before he could make it and he staggered against a sapling, falling to his knees in the grass, vomit sharp and putrid on his tongue. He clawed at the earth, desperate for purchase, and waited until it was over, until he was dry heaving into a patch of ice and choking back sobs - a pathetic display of weakness and emotion that he couldn't stop. 

He wanted to scream, to slash away at Smaug's golden eyes until they were empty holes, to claw at his own face until all the pain in the world had left him - instead he curled into himself and shivered despite his heavy coat, rocking gently until he had calmed, soft whimpers escaping through his nostrils.

_"You are changed, Thorin."_

He lifted his head, sitting back on his haunches to let the cool night air reach his overheated face, and tried to push back the voices creeping into his consciousness.

"I am changed," he murmured, voice rough and broken in the moonlight. 

_But how changed?_

He jerked the knife from his boot and fisted his fingers in the length of his beard, pulling so hard it wrenched his lips open into a grimace. 

_How much have I changed?_

He lifted the knife and let the edge glide against his throat, over the cartilaginous ridge that bobbed when he swallowed, against the rough hairs beneath his chin - the sound faint and disconcerting.

_I've left so many to die. I've breathed in the ashes of a thousand lives._

His grasp on the present failed and he saw familiar faces before him, pride in their eyes and strength in the lines of their shoulders.

His hand trembled on the hilt.

_I failed all of you. Again._

He pulled the blade forward and cut the hair free from his flesh with one movement, letting it fall to the ground. 

_But I will not fail you this time._

 

* * *

 

He had seen his brother walk away but not where he had gone. Thorin relied on him didn't he? Weren't they a team? Why wouldn't Thorin come to him?

“Where is he?” Frerin caught his sister’s arm as she passed, coming to his senses. “Is he alright?”  
  
“I just don’t know, Frerin,” she shook her head. “He’s acting strangely.”  
  
_“Who cares for gold and treasures?”_ Frerin tried to shake off the chill that crawled up between his shoulderblades when he remembered Thorin’s quiet words in the vaults.

“He’s just upset. People are blaming him for making them leave…” He assured her, catching her other elbow. “Did you see where he went?”  
  
“Frer, maybe you should just leave him alone?” Dís caught his face in her hands. “I know you’re worried, but he’s…”  
  
“He’s our brother, Dee, and nobody else is going to look after him. He always tries to take on too much,” Frerin caught her wrists and pulled her hands away. “We have to _try_ to get him out of his head.”  
  
Balin had told him before leaving that Thorin needed to be watched. 

He remembered standing before the gates of Erebor with Balin’s heavy hand on his shoulder, searching the warrior’s tired eyes. He heard Balin’s words, but all he could focus on was the passing of citizens around them - moving on as best they could with what little time they had.

_“I’m escorting the first wave, you’re the one that will have to stay with Thorin, understand?”_ Balin had said, shaking his shoulder. _“Are you listening, laddie?”_  
  
_“Balin. Why is this happening?”_ He had asked, voice empty.

_“Don’t worry about why. You need to keep your brother out of his head, Frerin, I’m not going to be there to help him. He’s going to want to blame himself… You can’t let him do that. Thorin_ **_needs_ ** _you right now.”_

He moved under his own volition, pulling away from his sister finally and walking in the direction she had returned from, still lost in his own memories. If Balin had been there, if he hadn’t had to leave with the first wave of refugees... Balin understood Thorin better than anyone. Better than Frerin ever would.  
  
Balin would have known what to say when he found Thorin sitting in half-frozen grass, staring blankly into the distance - as if he was seeing something that wasn’t there.

However, Balin he was not.  
  
Instead, Frerin tried to think of how Thorin would have approached him, how his elder brother would treat him if he were in the same position… and slumped down into a patch of snow beside him.  

Thorin said nothing, yet Frerin hadn’t expected him to, not the unbreakable Thorin with his willpower and wisdom - he wouldn't show weakness even if he was bleeding to death. 

"So..." He cursed himself internally for his inadequacy, picking at the lip of his boot. He was supposed to support Thorin, to care for him, to offer him comfort... Not sit idly by his side with no words to console him.

The weight of his brother's arm around his shoulder was a welcome surprise and he leaned into Thorin's side, relief filling him. Relief that mingled with tines of regret and disappointment, mostly in himself. Dís and Thorin were unarguably stronger than him, they were suffering this ill with fortitude, backs bent but not broken. His sister was intelligent and sturdy - she was a good fighter and a good tactician and people like Thorin trusted her word. She bore the weight of losing their home by caring for her people with a fierce kindness. Thorin was... well, he was Thorin. Thorin was his older brother, the heir, the jewel in the crown. He was brave, loyal, and a worthy leader. 

Frerin was the trickster - not meant for glory or a kingdom's throne. He would be protected and comfortable with Thorin as King, never wanting for neither sustenance nor shelter... But he would never be an ambassador, nor a great warrior, nor a guardian. He would be remembered in the footnotes of history as Frerin son of Thrain, brother of Thorin II. Nothing but a name. No deeds worthy of mention or battles won in his honor...

"Thank you," Thorin said.

"For what?"  
  
Thorin gave him no answer, his blue eyes faraway - as if he was looking into another time, another place. He had seen Thorin vanish into his thoughts more and more lately, nearly brooding in his solitude. He wished that he could be trusted to know what Thorin was thinking, that he might come to understand, yet the thought scared him… there was something foreboding about Thorin’s melancholy. 

He could feel his eyes growing heavy beneath the warmth of Thorin’s arm, sinking heavily into his brother’s side.

“We will go to Khazad-Dûm.” Thorin’s voice reached him, but did not sink any further than his most superficial thoughts.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, next chapter out soon!


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